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And consecrate each passing day and hour
Thy little round to fill
Serving the Holy One,
“Father, thy will be done.”
Acting from Christian love;
When thou dost look above.
So thou shalt rest at night
To wake in Heaven's full light.
NOOZELL AND THE ORGAN-GRINDER.-A.-MIE.
Noozell was alone in his glory. His wife and family had gone out for a walk. He sat on his front doorstep, meditatively surveying the clouds, when a native of sunny Italy stopped at his gate and insinuatingly asked, “Moosic ?”
“No, sir-ee!" promptly answered Noozell, who is not at all partial to music.
But the Italian didn't leave. He looked intently at Noozell's face for some moments. Then he opened the gate, and with tears in his eyes, staggered up to Noozell, who had risen in alarm, and passionately embraced him. “ It ees-it ees,” he hysterically exclaimed, and then completely overcome with his emotions, hung limp and lifeless upon the astonished Noozell.
“Dear me! this is awful!" groaned Noozell, borne down with the weight of a healthy Italian and a fifty pound organ.
The Italian soon recovered and disengaged himself. But only for a moment. With a few inarticulate expressions in his native tongue, he embraced Noozell with renewed vigor, and almost smothered that harmless and peaceable citizen in the ardor of the act.
After repeating this several times he retired a few feet and looked admiringly at Noozell; while that ruffled individual sat down on the steps and manfully endeavored to regain his lost breath. After accomplishing this laudable under
taking sufficiently to look around, he found that several of his neighbors were enjoying the scene from their respective front door steps. This aroused the lion in Noozell's bosom. He got up, and raising himself to his greatest height, thundered:
"You villain! you rascall you thief! what does this mean?”
The tears again started from the Italian's eyes as he reproachfully said:
“ Zis from ze man who sufe ze life of my two sons, who is now both artists on ze hard-organ! Zis from ze man who pay ze doctor ven zay was sick! It ees too mooch!” And the stalwart Italian leaned against the fence and wept.
“My friend,” said Noozell, who is a soft-liearted man, and who, on seeing the Italian's emotion, heartily regretted his harsh words, “ you are mistaken. I am not the man.”
"Not ze man?” repeated the Italian. “Oh yes you is! I know him. Zere is zot gumbile on your pretty face. Zat grooked nose. Zein big ears. Zem nice red hair. Oh no! I no can be mistake!"
Noozell sat down, perfectly speechless and stared blankly at the small but select audience of bootblacks who were enjoying the scene from the sidewalk.
“I am grateful," continued the Italian. “Gold and silver I hafe not; but what I hafe shall be yours. I play you a tune."
And he did; notwithstanding the fact that Noozell, in the most elegant pigeon-English, and the most frantic demonstrations a despairing mortal is capable of making, tried to make him understand that he was opposed to the motion.
Ile ground out that popular air“The Marsellaise," a tune that Noozell detests above all other tunes. So he spasmodically reached for his hair, and gazed around with a gloomy look on his face that furnished the highest possible enjoyment for the appreciative audience of bootblacks.
“ Ze nices moosic he can be,” remarked the smiling musician.
Noozell didn't think so. When the Italian at length stopped to change the tune he pulled out a greenback and offered it to the Italian, saying:
Enough-now go." But the Italian waved his hand in a hurt manner. “Nothng. I am grateful,” he simply said, and began grinding out more melody
Noozell settled himself to his fate and quietly sat there for half an hour while the pleased Italian turned the crank with unremitting energy.
At the end of that time he got up and earnestly requested the enthusiastic Italian to stop. But that individual was too grateful to comply.
Then Noozell swung his arms around his head and jumped up and down the steps, and in despair called the Italian, the bootblacks, his neighbors, and everybody else who was looking on,“ Bloated bond-holders!"
The Italian evidently mistook this for a token of approval and delightedly murmured, “Nices moosic he can be!"
Then Noozell, in his despair, unconsciously executed a neat double-shuffle, which the audience on the sidewalk vigorously applauded to the intense delight of the Italian who rapturously repeated, “Nices moosic he can be!" and turned the crank with ever increasing speed.
At last Noozell, completely worn out with his efforts to induce the organist to leave, entered the house. His was a desperate resolve. He got down from the garret a thing that every well-regulated family inherits from a grandfather -an old gun. This he loaded with bird-shot, cocked it, sprang nimbly to the open door with it, aimed at the Italian, who was still playing, and fired. A moment later there was music in the air-music a thousand times more terrible to Noozell's ears than the most unearthly air ever ground out of any organ in existence,-its component parts were the screams of his wife, the cries of his children, the shrieks of the lately-smiling bootblacks, mingled with the shouts of the excited bystanders. For when the blood-thirsty Noozell shot at the musician, the former's wife was just entering the gate, and in a moment would have been directly in front of the Italian, and out of danger. But as fate would have it, she was completely out of range of the Revolutionary relic, and, as a matter of course, received the full charge of birdshot on her breast; but, luckily, she had on her new, fashionable buckle, so the shot glanced off and distributed itself impartially among the nearest bystanders.
Then to add to the confusion, two policemen marched Noozell off to the station-house to answer to the charge of
shooting, with intent to kill. He was discharged, however, for want of evidence, for the Italian wisely staid away, and so escaped being scalped, a thing that Noozell expressed himself anxious to do.
So, to quote a popular saying, there was nobody hurt.”
A TALE OF THE ATLANTIC COAST.
My Mary and me, all alone,
In its play on the old hearthstone.
About days that have long since gone,
Ah me! how the seasons fly on.
Flares out on the sober brown wall,
Hung just where the gray shadows fall.
And winters and winters ago
In the rush of their hungry flow.
They've silvered an’ whitened my hair,
A-musin’and nursin' my care,
I have dreamed it often before,
That fringes the rock-girded shore.
His face, beamin' joyous an'gay,
An' nooks where he nestled in play;
So fond in its innocent joy,
With grief for our sunny-haired boy.
I know I was hasty an' mad,
I might a-spoke tender an’soft like,
I ought to been kind to the lad. I told him to leave me, forever,
Yes, never to darken my door, And I can't forget how he answered,
Nor the look that his brown eyes wore. "Ah, father," sez he, “ for some reason
You've kinder got tired o' me,
An' now I'm a-goin' to sea.
Still, somehow, there's somethin' I lack, Let's part then in peace an' in friendship,
For mebbe I'll never come back. "I know, as you say, I'm soft-hearted,
The tears sometimes come in a tide, But I'll try to act iny part manly,
I am young an' the world is wide. Think well as you can of me, father,
I know I've nct always done right.” Then I turned but only the shadows
Were there by the summer moon's light. I went to the door and I called him;
The echoes went soundin' along,
Exceptin' the whip-poor-will's song;
My call as it rang through the glen, And I thought its melody whispered,
" You'll never see Willie again." So, the days and weeks kep’a-passin',
And, still we thought, mebbe he'll come; We looked, an’ we longed, an’ we waited,
With lips that were whitened an' dumb. The months became years, an' the seasons
Went slowly a-driftin' away, An' Mary an' me we grew weary,
As the hair on our heads got gray. Yes, many a night when th
breezes Came sighin' in over the sea, We would think of our boy who wandered
Away on its bosom so free;
And the breakers were white with foam, Willicht up the window for Willie,
For we thought that he might come homo. VUIU' και